Details |
John Mccartney Poem
propriocetion of an unhappy deltoid
the eyeball flambé of envy
and other itches stitches palsies and gouts
shout give up, throw it in, it’s too much!
such suggestions never make me waver
rather raise a stubborness in my endeavour
ring a bell far out in my stormy sea
inchcape finisterre inistrahull light
oh no stubborness is the star
stops me bailing out
keeps me bailing
in the teeth of howl gales bark
though land and home and sky are out of sight
and my unwilling bark
fills fast in time’s approaching night
and all is mist and sea’s unstable carp.
Copyright © John Mccartney | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
John Mccartney Poem
To Eamon
I followed you down that long straight road
Stretched through plain under sky
You with your boy and your bicycle
Me, with Despair in my stare and my sigh.
And we came to the Dante-esque crossroads
And watched as ghosts in machines drove by.
I had seen, of course, this show before
But not with you by my side
And the loneliness was lessened
With two caught on life’s cold neap tide.
Two sheep in the false wolf’s clothing
Of an alienating pride.
Trekking miles of running blacktop
Not knowing if to or from
Just keeping present with the moments
Of time coming and time gone.
And the twisted things that the intellect
Poured its poisoned moonlight on.
We stopped at a dusty layby
High and bare upon a bluff
And I felt suddenly false and foolish
Caught up in your family stuff.
Like a dog around a carcass
Who cannot eat enough.
Oh blindly I adored you
Your machinelike cold control
As you calmly dissected other lives
In a way that showed no soul.
And I thus refused what God had dropped
In my Buddhist begging bowl.
When we chilled out at the ranchhouse
I simply couldn’t see
That intellectualising
Was not where we needed to be.
That we cut ourselves with the scalpel
That was meant to set us free.
We were miles from that messy pump the heart
That overrules the head
When talk comes dark and throaty
Or gesture rules instead.
And the soft look of submission
Says the things that can’t be said.
O it’s hard to track the wolf man
Who hates being spied upon
And who when he sees it’s over
Thinks it’s easy to move on.
For the present’s lean and hungry
And the road leads from Babylon.
Yes it’s hard to see the wolfman
Ever watchful for the spy
Tho’ sometimes you will catch him
Under the fitful moonlit sky
On a road forever straightened
In his wide and suffering eye.
Copyright © John Mccartney | Year Posted 2011
|